


Love Songs for the Genuinely Cunning

by Flames_and_Jade



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Companionable Snark, M/M, Recording Studio, Rough Sex, Santa Hat, Sasstrick, Semi-Public Sex, VERY light bondage, barely there, creative hiding places for lube, dirty talk (hopefully?), grumpy!Patrick, oh my god what have i done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Patrick just wants to get "Don't You Know Who You Think I Am?" to sound perfect, Pete just wants to try that new Thai place and leave the studio before 10pm. He's tried everything--decorating, tinsel, kisses and even messing with the soundboard, but Patrick isn't budging.Desperate times call for desperate measures.





	Love Songs for the Genuinely Cunning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).
  * Inspired by [yes is a world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/851246) by [girlpearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlpearl/pseuds/girlpearl), [melusina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melusina/pseuds/melusina). 



> Okay guys, so I *definitely* played around with timelines here. Imagine, in this universe, that IOH came out in April of 2007, so they recorded through January...and Pete never met Ashlee Simpson. I don’t mean that in an unkind way, because I’m sure she’s a lovely person! But she just doesn’t quite fit into this Peterick Universe I’ve constructed. I hope you’ll forgive my liberties and that they don’t detract too much from the story. 
> 
> The prompts I was given were Pete/Patrick, Pre-hiatus timeframe, Top!Patrick, Dirty talk, and some Semi-Public sex. This story was *hugely* inspired by "Yes is a world" by girlpearl and melusina...I *really* recommend you go scurry over there and read their amazing words that far eclipse my blatherings!!

 

If he was being really honest, he just didn’t understand how Patrick thought he’d do anything _but_ exactly what he’d done. He was _Pete Wentz_ ; lover of holidays, purveyor of razzle-dazzle, king of excessive flair, and the absolute definition of over-the-top.

 

Joe and Andy had thrown their hands up three days prior, happy with the album as it was and more than content with their individual recordings. They had helped Pete carry a tiny three-foot tree into the studio, and Neal had looked up with a laugh and a smile, giving him a thumbs up as he pressed the headphones to his head with the other hand. They hung plastic ornaments from the tree’s branches as Patrick sang into the mic like his life depended on it in the soundbooth. Pete, of course, snuck in to hang one from the bottom of the pop stopper on a break, much to Patrick’s grumbling and shouted curses to _get the fuck out of the booth, asshole!_ He couldn’t help it, not with the funky things that happened in his jeans when Patrick let loose with those breathy warbling notes.

 

The next day found him tumbling in with armfuls of decorations--tinsel, garland, fake snow and a bundle of fake plastic mistletoe that he loved. Patrick only acknowledged him with a look full of contempt and a huff of inevitability as Pete flitted around the studio, hanging garland from everything. He had strung it around the soundbooth window, making sure to put his ass in Patrick’s face as much as possible, before sprinkling tinsel all over the soundboard to much cussing from his bandmate. Taking the small sticky hook from the package, he pulled the table over to press it to the ceiling above Patrick, who was so engrossed in the track that he was working on--tentatively titled “Me and You”--that he didn’t even object to the life-threatening acrobatics happening above him. Pete hung the mistletoe with a satisfied grin, before jumping down to press a sloppy-wet kiss to Patrick’s cheek that earned him a well-placed elbow to the stomach.

 

Day three found Pete sitting on the couch with reindeer antlers on his head, grinning quietly into his phone as Patrick gave him a confused look at his lack of shenanigans. Pete merely gave him puppy eyes that had him huffing and rolling his own as he sat down at the soundboard, mind already a million miles away. Thumbs flying across the keyboard, Pete waited for it...enjoying the relative silence of the studio as Patrick worked in what he knew was a peace that wouldn’t last.

 

“ _ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!_ ” Patrick jumped up from the board, chair tumbling over as his knees hit the back of it before turning furious eyes on Pete. “ _WHY ARE ALL THE SAMPLES CHRISTMAS SOUNDS NOW!?_ ”

 

Eyes wide in faux innocence, Pete held his hands out in surrender as he stood, sauntering over with an exaggerated swish of his hips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, babe. I don’t even know how to _use_ the board.” With one hand, he took trucker cap off in a single smooth motion and plopped a fluffy Santa hat on his head in its place. Before Patrick could argue, he pointed up to the mistletoe and pressed a kiss to frowning lips, feeling his own tip up into a smile.

 

“You’re a fucking ass.” Patrick huffed, giving him a glare and pulling the hat down firmly on his head as he sat down. “It’s gonna take me forever to un-fuck this, I--” With a smooth motion, Pete reached around him and flicked a switch, reverting everything back to normal.

 

“All better, so can we please not be here forever? I want to try that new Thai place that opened up in Pasadena.”

 

Of course, they were there forever as Patrick redid the bassline of “Wave” again, and Pete had an idea as he realized with traffic they’d never make it to that trendy new restaurant in time. It was only four more days until Christmas...may as well get in the spirit, right?

 

~//~

 

It was so close...just out of reach, a phantom of sound and symphonies, a major to minor chord progression he was a whisper away from perfecting. The problem was he could _almost_ hear it in his head, but it was jumbled together with all sorts of other melodies, snatches of song and little hooks that floated around in a tumble of sound that was just the normal landscape of his brain.

 

This was the first song he was _actually_ producing himself; it would have his name under that spot he had coveted for so long. _Producer._

 

Flicking away yet _another_ bundle of tinsel that his fucking--his mind supplied the word _boyfriend_ and he skirted away from that because nobody knew, _nobody._ It was just their _thing_ , their _PeteandPatrick_ taken to the next step that he had never thought would actually happen, yet here it was. It was smiles from across the room and whispered words as they orbited each other, it was weekends of lazy mornings in bed and Ghostbusters on the tv as they ate Chinese takeout tangled in _them_.

 

It was _Pete Fucking Wentz_ and his absolutely manic love for holidays.

 

Patrick found out when, after the complete explosion of Halloween that had taken over both their apartments, Pete took it all down and put _Thanksgiving_ decorations up—much to Patrick’s chagrin. He hadn’t even known they _made_ thanksgiving decorations...but his apartment begged to differ, with fake fall leaves strung up from every surface and fat turkeys staring at him from every vertical surface. That’s when he realized it wasn’t just halloween...Pete loved _Holidays_ to the extreme.

 

So here he was, trying to finish this song on a soundboard covered in tinsel with a bundle of plastic mistletoe hanging precariously above his head and garland hung on every other conceivable surface. At least his--his mind shuddered and balked-- _boyfriend_ was being quiet for once. Fingers dancing along the levels, winding and unwinding, playing and replaying...he was _so close_ . He could taste it, just a hair’s breadth away from being _perfect._

 

Something caught his eye--the volume indicator was trembling, shooting up before dropping back down in an undulating roll of loud and soft, up and down. He glared at it, confused...it was just him and Pete in the studio, Neal had said he’d be back in an hour after he tucked his kids in bed. He didn’t have anything rolling on that channel, did he? The soundbooth was empty after all--

 

The soundbooth wasn’t empty.

 

Patrick could feel his jaw dropping comically, sure it would have hit his chest if it was possible, as his eyes were riveted to the other side of the glass. To his boyfriend, who was seated on _his_ stool, leaning against the wall like he hadn’t a care in the world.

 

With his eyes closed, his pants open, and his hand working his cock languidly as he moaned like sin.

 

For a short eternity, Patrick just took him in--at meticulously straightened bangs falling over fluttering eyes ringed in kohl. At the perfect shape of his mouth, gently-parted lips glistening in the dim light of the booth. At the way his cock was straining in his hand, blood-dark and flushed, a drop of moisture glistening at the tip, luring him close like an invitation. It was everything forbidden and beautiful, everything delicious and dangerous all wrapped up in a single skin, in a pile of perfect bones assembled in just the right way as to be _irresistible_ if your name was Patrick Martin Stump.

 

But then his mind snapped back, realizing _anyone_ could walk in, that Pete had his fucking _cock out_ in the goddamned _sound booth_. Jumping up, he ran to the studio door and locked it, grateful beyond measure that someone had already taped a sheet of paper over the small window. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, taking three deep breaths as he asked all the music gods to either give him self-control or forgive him for what he was about to do….and turned around. He was determined to scream at Pete until one of them died from oxygen deprivation and he stuffed his goddamned--

 

Except Pete was no longer in the sound booth. He was now lounging-- _how does he lounge against a soundboard and make it look so good?_ he wondered distantly--with a wide smile on his face that whispered things like _take no prisoners_ and _I know exactly what I’m doing_. He picked up the Santa hat from where Patrick had tossed it with a huff and set it on his head at a jaunty angle, pulling the white puffball and stroking it languidly, a mimicry of what he had just been doing to his cock.

 

 _His cock_.

 

Patrick couldn’t help the way his eyes went to it, jutting out from his body obscenely—the flushed dark column of it, skin pulled taut and wanting. He watched as Pete leaned against the soundboard and shimmied his hips until his pants were in a puddle on the ground, boxers following with ease. There was a click as his hand pushed something but there wasn’t time to wonder—not when Pete licked his lips and held his hand out.

 

“C’mere.” He pulled his shirt off his head in a single smooth motion, somehow maintaining the Santa hat’s placement on his head and backed away towards the cushioned darkness of the soundbooth. His eyes glittered and shone as he moved, naked as the day he was born, away from Patrick and he _ached_ with it. His feet, however, seemed anchored to the ground—merged with the shitty stained carpet. So Pete just gave him a smug smile as he slipped through the open door, cock bouncing obscenely as he moved.

 

But then— _then_ —he pressed his cheek to the wavy foam on the wall and looked at Patrick through the glass. His eyes were dark, endless pools of oil-slick hunger as he sucked two fingers into his mouth, tongue moving against them in a ridiculous showy swirl before reaching around to touch his own entrance. Eyelids fluttered down as he breached his body, back arching and a long, low moan falling from his lips as he pushed his cock into a loose fist.

 

The sound jolted Patrick like an electric shock—that raw, gravelly sound made heat arc through him, unfreezing his feet and propelling him into the sound booth. Pete opened his eyes at the sound of his stumbling footsteps, a grin starting to stretch his lips from where they had previously been curved into a pout of bliss...but then Patrick was pushing him face-first against the wall, slapping his hand from where it was buried in himself and pinning it to the wall, pressing the thrum of his suddenly achingly hard cock to the seam of his ass and holding back a gasp. His lips found Pete’s shoulder, biting down until he gasped and bucked back into him with a stuttered _‘Trick!_ that made him feel like he was going to go blind with need.

 

“You’re—“ He spun Pete around and pressed sharp, biting kisses to the line of his neck, along the tendon that strained just above his collarbone, pressing his hips against Pete’s and rolling them hard, pinning him against the wall. A brief flash of guilt fluttered through his mind as he thought of Pete’s bare ass cheeks against the booth’s padding...but it dropped from his mind like a stone as Pete rolled his hips back, erection rubbing against his own in the most maddening way. “You’re such a _shit_.” He gasped out, pressing a hard, demanding kiss to his lips, plundering his mouth in the best way, delighting the way Pete moaned against him. His hands came up to slide into Patrick’s hair and he grabbed them, holding them out wide against the wall as he kept kissing him. For a brief second, Pete fought against him, bucking his hips and pulling at his hold...but Patrick felt when he gasped, sagging against his body like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

 

“ _Patrick.”_ He gasped, head tipping back as he started to roll his hips with purpose, begging shamelessly. “C’mon, fuck me _please_ I—“

 

“I--I don’t have any--” Patrick tried to find a way to string the words _lube_ and _don’t want to hurt you_ but it was so _hard_ , every pun intended. But then Pete was shaking his head tenaciously as he hissed through his teeth as Patrick’s denim-clad cock rubbed against his own in the perfect way.

 

“The hat--let me…”  Shaking off his hold on his wrist, Pete reached up for the Santa hat somehow still perched miraculously on his head. His hand shook just ever so slightly as he reached in, all the way to the very end of the cone and pulled out two single-use packets of lube with a bright, toothy grin. “Fuckin’ boyscout or what, I swear I--”

 

“ _Shut up.”_ Patrick snatched the packets from his hand, head spinning as he realized he’d been wearing a _Santa Hat Stuffed with Lube_ for the better part of the morning, but he pushed that away. Taking hold of Pete’s hips, spun him around as he shoved him roughly against the booth’s glass, pressing his face to its smooth surface and pinning his hands over his head. Pete moaned and shimmied his ass against his crotch and Patrick decided pants were fucking annoying. Sticking one lube packet between his teeth, he slipped the other in his back pocket for later and opened his pants just enough to work his cock out of his boxers. He couldn’t resist a quick pump and the resultant moan made Pete groan and push back, seeking contact and starting to babble.

 

 _“Trick_ , do something, I’m fucking dying here, you--”

 

Tearing the lube packet open, Patrick was impressed at his sudden single-handed abilities as he _somehow_ was able to get lube on his fingers without spilling it everywhere. Grinning, he feathered his fingers against Pete’s entrance, gratified at the way his breath hitched and his spine shocked straight for a split second. But then the begging resumed as he slumped back into it, eagerly pushing on his fingers as he tried to get closer but was limited by Patrick’s hold on his wrists. Patrick grinned evilly into his shoulder, circling his rim before just breaching the tight muscle.

 

 _“Yessss….”_ Pete hissed out, only to end in a yelp as Patrick pulled them back out and resumed his leisurely circling. “What the fuck, you can’t--”

 

“Can’t what?” He purred, pushing up to bite the soft skin just below Pete’s ear. “Can’t tease you against the window? Why not?” Chuckling as a genius idea came to him, he bit Pete’s neck as he eased back in, just a tiny fraction and listened to his wanton moan. “Just think about it. I mean, I locked the door, but what if Neal has keys? What if he opens the door and sees you like this?” Pete shuddered, gasping as he pushed his fingers in deeper with his words, knowing Pete loved the _stretchtightburn_ of it. “What if someone walked by and tried to peek through the gap in the paper?” He started to move his hand, fucking into him gently but building up momentum as he searched for that place that would make him gasp and cry out his name. _“_ You know what, though? I wouldn’t stop.” Searching fingers, pads calloused from years of pressing against guitar strings, found that secret place deep within him and Pete cried out, a hoarse shout as he shook at Patrick’s words. “I’d keep fucking you and let them _watch_. Let them see how good you are, how pretty you look on my cock.” Pete was babbling now, begging without compunction as he fucked himself back on Patrick’s fingers, and his cock was very pointedly insisting he do just that. “Keep your hands here.” He hissed and Pete nodded with a gasp as he pulled his fingers free, retrieving the other packet of lube from his pants and slicking himself back up. Pete stayed pressed to the glass, chest heaving and eyes closed with his hands held over his head obediently, and Patrick felt his heart squeeze and constrict against his ribs. Part of him wanted to wrap his arms around Pete and kiss him senseless, to drag him to the shitty couch that had probably been in a dumpster at some point and whisper love into his neck as he fucked him gently…

 

But then Pete opened his eyes, huge and shot through with arousal, the eyeliner hopelessly smudged around them only making them look bigger. He bit his lip as he looked down at Patrick’s cock, glistening with lube in his hand, and then back up to meet his gaze. _“Please._ ” He breathed, like he could read Patrick’s mind, and that was it. His hand slammed against Pete’s crossed wrists as he kicked his feet out, growling _spread your legs_ into his neck. Obeying with a huff of breath, Pete widened his stance, bringing his hips down just a bit and setting him delightfully open, spread wide and waiting and Patrick’s cock _ached_ with it. He pressed his knees to Pete’s, pressing him against the wood and glass and pushed in with infinite care--a slow, steady press that had him gasping and moaning.

 

He waited until Pete was begging, hips trying to grind back and roll into him with want...and then he waited a few moments longer. _That_ was for all his idiotic shenanigans, no matter how much he’d half-enjoyed them (not that he’d ever tell Pete that. Oh no.), for all his _tinsel_. He waited until his moans took on a high, breathy quality and then started to thrust, gentle little motions that _slowly, slowly_ increased as he listened to Pete’s pleas and sucked a bruise into his shoulder.

 

“I wish everyone could see how pretty you are like this.” He murmured into his neck once the bruise was an angry red and Pete was slack against him with need. “You’re always pretty, but you’re the my favorite like _this_.” He punctuated the word with a thrust that had Pete’s head lolling back onto his shoulder as he keened, legs trembling against Patrick’s own.

 

“Please, _please_ Patrick…”

 

“Please what?” He breathed against his neck, rolling his hips so he brushed with maddening precision against his prostate and Pete gasped, arching his back in a bid to get closer. “What do you want?”

 

“Please…” Pete gulped for air, hands pulling weakly against Patrick’s grip around his wrists. “I need---I need, my cock, _please_.”

 

“Oh, this?” Grinning, Patrick snaked his free hand around to lightly encircle his hard, straining cock, smearing the beads of clear slick with his thumb and relishing the way Pete cried out a stuttered _fuckfuckfuckyes_. “You need something?”

 

“I gotta, you have to--”

 

“I don’t _have to_ anything.” Patrick cut him off, pulling out of him completely before moving back. The blunt head of his cock was _very_ upset that it was no longer buried in his bassist and best friend, but he pushed it against his hole but not inside, _there_ but not where he wanted it...a tease and a promise all wrapped in one. He was gratified as hell to hear Pete struggling to make a sentence, muted whines as he tried to push back but held taut by Patrick’s hold on his hands. But he still wanted to hear it, needed the words to drip from his mouth like honeyed sin. “But it’s Christmas. So maybe...if you ask _nicely…_ ”

 

“ _Patrick.”_ He groaned as Patrick rubbed a tiny circle around the head of his cock, around and around. “Goddammit Patrick, you’re--you--you’re so big, so fuckin’ _hung_ and I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, you make me come so hard I can hardly _breathe_ and I _need_ it, _please,_ I need--” He cut off with a choked gasp as Patrick pushed in, just the head slipping past the tight ring of muscle as they both gasped. He moaned, long and low--a sound that sounded nearly like determined resignation, like he had given up and decided to fight on all at once. “Godddddd…. just fuck me. Fuck me _hard_ , make me scream, _please_ \-- _”_  

 

Unable to hold back a groan of his own, Patrick trembled as he drove his hips in like a piston, slamming into him like he was trying to fuse them together at the waist. Pete’s hips moved in time as he cried out, momentum carrying his cock into Patrick’s hand as he desperately tried to hold all the pieces together, keep the rhythm in perfect synchronization to bring him over the edge. A small smirk twisted his lips as an errant thought drifted through his mind, _lucky for him I was a drummer first_ …

 

Then Pete was sucking in a gasping, shuddering breath before dropping his head back to Patrick’s shoulder as let out a strangled shout that ended with his name as he came over his hand, spattering up onto the glass as his hips bucked with the motion of Patrick’s thrusts. A moment of horror flashed through Patrick as he imagined trying to explain to Neal...but then Pete was clenching around him, body tight and perfect as warm lips brushed his ear. His gasps were loud, staticky against Patrick’s skin but he could hear him, hear the aftershocks making his voice tremble....

 

“--Tricky, fill me up, c’mon you know you wanna--”

 

Before he could even internally berate himself for the way his gut tightened at the thought, Patrick was gasping as he came with a grunt and a murmured _fuck_ drawn out for far more syllables than normal. His hips worked, pushing Pete against the glass and fucking into him once, twice more as he released hot and perfect.

 

They stayed like that for a long moment, sweat-slick bodies trembling against each other as they came down...and then Pete was turning, pulling out of his grip and sliding down to a heap on the floor. He smiled up at Patrick with a mischievous light glinting in his eyes and Patrick decided standing was overrated anyways. He thumped down and gave his boyfriend a shaky smile.

 

“You’re a--” he started, but Pete cut him off with a grin.

 

“Genius? Sex Savant?” The grin turned smug. “Thanks for noticing.”

 

Patrick shook his head, murmuring _sure_ as he realized he really didn’t have anything else to say, and they just sat for a long moment of fluttering hearts and twined hands.

 

But then the air turned cold on their skin and they got up, Patrick moaning at the mess all over the glass and mumbling something about _hallowed spaces_ , and Pete laughed.

 

“Don’t worry. I saw windex somewhere.” He pressed a bright, biting kiss to Patrick’s lips and swallowed down his sigh...and Patrick just couldn’t find it in him to be mad. Especially not when Pete skipped from the booth bare-assed, fingers twitching over the sound board as he hunted underneath it for cleaning supplies. A chord progression fluttered through Patrick’s head as he pulled his pants on and he thought _there you are_.

  


~//~

  


Two days later they were stepping off the plane and back to the blessed chill of Chicago--to a _real_ winter and Christmas surrounded by snowy trees and roaring fireplaces with their families. There was laughter and teasing as they all hugged Andy goodbye, causing him to have to run to catch his flight back to Wisconsin, and then they trundled off towards baggage claim. Joe was desperately trying to think of an excuse to get out of Hanukkah celebrations that night with his family, asking what the symptoms of mumps were and if he could reasonably impersonate them without getting actually sick. Patrick was listening to his mother give him very detailed instructions on how to get home safely because apparently if you left Chicago for anytime at all you forgot how to drive in snow.

 

“Mom, Pete’s dropping me off, so...don’t worry. We’ll be fine I promise.” Pete laughed, grabbing the phone away and promising his mom to bring her _precious stumplet home in one piece, come hell or high water_ and Patrick strongly considered if a taxi was worth it.

  
Forty-five minutes later, they were pulling up in front of Patrick’s parents house--an action they’d done for _years_ . But this time, Pete was fiddling with the long braided side of his TMNT ski hat, and Patrick rolled his eyes. Turning in his seat, he grabbed Pete’s face and pulled him into a kiss full of warmth and love and _them_ , not caring if his Uncle Roy saw or not. Pete’s lips were gratifyingly red when he pulled away with a smirk, and he knew his cheeks were probably in the same state. He could always blame the cold if his mom asked, he supposed.

 

“See you in a couple days, yeah?” He grinned, rolling his eyes as the reality occurred to him. “I mean, if you _don’t_ ditch your own family like a bitch and crawl in my window…”

 

“That was _one time_ , asshole!” Pete laughed, swatting him on the side of the head affectionately as Patrick climbed out, pulling his backpack on and grabbing his suitcase from the backseat.

 

“Merry Christmas, Pete.” He grinned, and he felt his heart give that suspicious _thump thump_ as Pete revved the engine, blowing a kiss as he started to pull away

 

“Merry Christmas, Lunchbox!”

 

~//~

 

Two days later, in the midst of Christmas Eve dinner preparations, Patrick’s phone trilled with the ringtone Pete had bought--with Patrick’s own money, mind you--and set as his ringtone, nevermind he fucking hated it to no end. Still, as the raspy tones of Bryan Adam’s “(Everything I Do) I Do For You” trilled out, he couldn’t help but smile a tiny bit as he picked it up. “Hey Pete.”

 

“Hey Trick! Did you listen to your present yet?”

 

“Uhhh.” He moved out of the kitchen so he could hear, his sister’s story about some sort of march drowning out Pete’s tinny voice. “No, what are you talking about?”

 

“In your backpack, I put a CD in there for you!”

 

Rolling his eyes, Patrick shook his head even though he knew Pete couldn't see. “No, I didn’t--” He called out to his mom that he’d be right back, and trundled up the stairs to look as Pete yammered on about something his mom was cooking this year called a Turducken. Finding his backpack exactly where he had left it, he rifled through until he found a CD wrapped in notebook paper with Pete’s distinctive scrawl across it-- _For Trickydoodle, listen BY YOUR SELF._

 

“ _Yourself_ is one word, idiot.”

 

“Semantics.” Pete replied, and he could practically _hear_ the dismissive hand wave. But then his mom was yelling for him, and he threw the CD back into his backpack.

 

“I gotta go, but I’ll listen to it later, promise.”

 

“Okay…” Pete sounded sorrowful, and for a moment he considered hollering down at his mom he’d be down in a second and kicking his door shut to listen. But then she yelled again, and he began to seriously fear for his life despite being nearly twenty-one years old.

 

“I _promise_.” He smiled, thinking of what craziness was probably on the CD--Pete reading some sort of weird alien tentacle erotica complete with sound effects, Pete singing him a love song he wrote himself (it had happened once or twice already), or it could just be Pete breathing into a mic because he thought it would be funny. “Merry Christmas, Pete.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Rickster. Love you.”

 

Warmth blossomed in his chest as the words sunk into his skin, like a tattoo...maybe the only one he’d ever want. It sat in his heart while they all ate dinner, as he listened to his Aunt talk about how President Bush was the best thing to ever happen to the nation, and as he watched his mom laugh until she cried at one of Kevin’s jokes.

 

Later, full of food and family and the warm feelings that went along with it, he stamped up the stairs longing for the singular comfort of his old bed. There was something about _your bed_ at _your house_ ….even though he had his own apartment like a fucking adult, thank you very much. Throwing his hat onto the desk as he shut and locked the door (no screaming cousins would be bursting in at six in the morning, thank you _very much)_ , he noticed his backpack sitting forlornly at the foot of the bed. _The CD_ , he thought as he pulled the paper-wrapped missive from the bag and pulled his phone from his back pocket before kicking off his pants.

 

 _ <Merry Christmas Eve. I’m gonna listen to your CD now> _ he texted Pete, then proceeded to carefully take off the stapled-together layer of paper. He realized once it fell away that Pete had stapled _multiple_ layers of paper around the disc, each one with an increasingly sappy sentiment; _youre my fav person_ , _u make me feel like capt crunch thats sat n milk 4 n hr on th inside_ , _Oh hey sexy face, fancy seein u here_ , _i miss u and i love you asshole, merry christmas rickster!_

 

Shaking his head as he pulled the last one off, not caring there was a ridiculously saccharine smile on his face, his phone buzzed.

 

< _lstn 2 it on ur headphones trust me bb txt me wen ur done ;) ;) ;P :P > _

 

Rolling his eyes, he reached into his nightstand drawer and fished out his old CD player and headphones. Snapping the disc inside, he set it on the comforter next to him and laid back to listen to whatever it was Pete had made for him. Scratchy silence played back to him for a long moment, and he glanced down wondering if something was wrong with his player.

 

But then the sound of _Pete moaning like sin_ flooded his ears, breathy little sighs and gasps that made blood flow somewhere that _definitely_ wasn’t his brain. Pete began to narrate what he was doing...how his cock felt in his hand, how hard he was, how much he wanted Patrick to fuck him, and Patrick couldn’t help the way he was suddenly squirming. Wondering when Pete had time to make this, between recording and wondering where the fuck they had been--but then his breath froze in his chest as he _heard himself_ . His growled _You’re--you’re such a shit_ ...and suddenly he _knew_ where Pete had been for this. Because he’s been there too.

 

The recording studio. The soundbooth.

 

His brain--well, what parts of it that were still working--flashed back to the way Pete had leaned against the soundboard, his fingers clicking something that Patrick hadn’t taken the time to question. That little shit had _recorded the whole thing_...and as much as he wanted to be upset, to freak out about the possibility of someone finding it...he couldn’t, not as the recording equipment in the booth picked up every breathy hitch, every moan and every whimper in glorious detail.

 

Twenty minutes later, cock hard and tenting his boxers obscenely, he threw his headphones off and stared at the ceiling. _Fucking Pete Wentz._

 

Grabbing his phone as he pulled on his pants, trying to figure out a way to button them around his raging boner, he grabbed his keys from where he had tossed them and opened the window. _I can’t believe I’m climbing out my window like a teenager_ he groused as he worked his way down to the snowy lawn. Dialing as he stomped to his car, he could _hear_ the shit-eating grin on Pete’s face when he purred _“_ Hello?”

 

“Be outside your house in ten minutes, asshole.” He hissed as he sat down, cock protesting as his zipper pushed against it.

 

“Why?” Pete sounded just as innocent as could be, like he hadn’t given Patrick a _professionally-rendered sex soundtrack_ for Christmas.

 

“Because I’m driving over to get you and _then_ we’re going to go find a dark deserted parking garage and I’m going to _fuck you through the backseat of my car, you little shit_.”

 

Pete’s braying laugh crackled through his phone as he pulled away, only speeding a _little_ on the icy deserted streets as he roared towards Willmette.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title taken from Fall Out Boy's "The Carpal Tunnel of Love."


End file.
